


Thunder, Steal the Wind

by qthelights



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, In the Dark, Injury, M/M, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in a thunderstorm with an unknown creature chasing them, Stiles and Derek find they need to trust each other to get through the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder, Steal the Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jsea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsea/gifts).



> Written for jsea who won me in the Sterek Campaign Wolf Charity Auction. Was a pleasure to write for you, m'dear - and thank you for being so incredibly understanding :)
> 
> Warnings - This starts out with a description of the funeral of Stiles' mother, but this is for illustrative purposes only and isn't the point of the fic. Nonetheless if that bothers you, skip a few paragraphs in and the story should still work :) Also, possible mild dub-con feels (that really isn't though) at one point.

On the day they buried his mother, there was a thunderstorm. Stiles stood next to his dad as the rain began to splatter against the wood of the coffin in dull thuds. He always expected the day would be sunny. Would mirror his mother’s disposition, her joyful enthusiasm that had lasted right up until the end. It seemed like mother nature should take that into account. It was always that way, in the movies; the sad end of one chapter and hopeful beginning of the next.

Someone had put up an umbrella, a large black swathe of canvas that cast a shadow over him and his dad. In retrospect, Stiles would wonder why there was no shelter, no awning to cover them, his mom. With all the death in Beacon Hills, he’d thought the cemetery would have it down to an art by now. But on the day they said goodbye, there was none. People were fidgeting; they pulled together under a collection of shabby umbrellas, lifting scarves over hair and memorial booklets like newspapers in the rain. The picture of his mom dripped in ink off the pages. 

The pastor had valiantly gone on, saying words no one listened to as rain sluiced off the white lilies on the casket, bruising the delicate flesh of their petals. The grave began to fill with muddy water. Leaves start to float across the brown liquid, solitary little boats on a sea of doomed fate. There was nothing redemptive about this death.

Lightning arced across the dark grey of the sky, filling the horizon with blinding white. Even the pastor looked heavenward, as if expecting God’s hand itself to reach down and smite him. What followed was a crack and boom of thunder directly above them, so loud it rattled the ground under Stiles’ feet and made him jump. Surprised gasps spilled through the small crowd. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as electricity filled the air.

Finally, as the rain pounded harder, whipping at the scratchy suit Stiles wore, the pastor turned to the Sheriff, apologies writ across his face. Suggested that they moved inside. His dad nodded sharply and his hand tightened around Stiles’ own. He hadn’t let go since they’d arrived. The mourners were ushered in, unable to hide their relief at the prospect of shelter.

Shelter wouldn’t provide Stiles with relief, though. The storm smashed in apocalypse above him, light flashing like a jagged cut, a wound across the dark sky, followed too quickly by the echoing bang of hard noise. Stiles had wanted to cover his ears, but he wouldn’t let go of his dad’s hand. 

Grave workers hurried as soon as their backs were turned, struggling to remove the coffin from the damaging wet. Stiles followed his dad inside, leaving her there in the rain. He’d hated thunderstorms ever since. 

Which is why, as he runs through the waterlogged forest after Derek’s dark form, tripping over tree roots and getting smacked in the face by stinging, wet branches, it’s with a certain amount of panic at the rain getting stronger and the distant rumble of thunder threatening worse.

Behind them, the shrieks of the... _thing_... are pitched high and angry. A whooping that ends in the high gurgling noise of pain. Pain inflicted by Derek’s claws digging deep into the creature's stomach before he’d turned to Stiles with mucky, brown blood that smelled like squashed ants dripping off his claws, eyes red pinpoints in the darkness and yelled “RUN!”

Stiles had run. 

Stiles is still running. 

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been fleeing for — time has a way of getting away from him in these situations. It could have been hours, or it could have been minutes. Whichever it is, it feels like a long time, a _really_ long time. His legs passed the point of no return long ago, fire lancing up his calves, and he’s sure he’s about to pull a hamstring or snap an ankle as he tumbles over the wet terrain. 

He passes too close to a tree and a rogue branch reaches out of nowhere to slam into his chest, sending him toppling onto his back in the leaves and mud, a rock glancing across the back of his head. Derek is there in an instant, yanking him back up and tugging him onwards. 

The shrieks are still coming through the gloom. Stiles hopes Derek is leading them in the direction of civilisation, though knowing Derek, he probably isn’t, more worried about the effect of loosing the thing on the innocent population of Beacon Hills. Which, okay, Stiles can admit Derek has a point and he’s theoretically on board with it, but he’s starting to tire and isn’t sure he can run much further.

Thunder booms loudly across the canopy, threading through the trees like an ocean of boulders landsliding down a hill. Ahead of him Derek cowers, almost dropping to his knees and Stiles literally stops - his feet, his heart, his breath. He looks around, panic in his throat, looking for the beast, alphas, hunters, anything that would provoke the reaction Derek’s tightened form indicates. But there’s nothing. 

By the time he catches up Derek is back on his feet. He’s been running ahead of him all this time, picking the path, probably one Stiles can manage, close enough to turn and defend and nowhere near the speed he could be going wolfed out. Now he waits, and, as Stiles slows with a stitch in his side and breathing noisily, Stiles can see the manic look in Derek’s eyes. That more than anything, more than the creature, the storm, the running for their lives, unnerves him. 

“What’s wrong?” Stiles demands, tries to keep the thready panic from his voice and mostly fails. 

“Nothing,” Derek snaps, eyes flickering crimson and back to dark pools of shadow in the falling night. “We have to get out of the storm.”

“And not far away from the monster back there?” Stiles asks, waving his arm in the direction they’ve come from. Rain drips in his eyes and clumps his eyelashes. His shoes are full of water and his clothes getting heavier by the second. He wishes he’d put on a hoodie when he’d left the house.

“This is more important,” Derek answers abruptly and turns ninety degrees to the left. Without looking back he starts into the trees, a black figure slipping between dark trunks.

“More important than not getting eaten?” Stiles calls after him and if his voice rises a little incredulously, a little tightly strung well then that’s just going to have to be okay.

“ _Stiles!_ Yes!” Derek growls, whipping around to loom at him in the darkness. Rain from his leather jacket propels off him in an arc as he pivots, splattering against Stiles’ chest and sodden t-shirt. 

“Hey! I’m not saying you don’t have your reasons,” Stiles snaps back, just as easily angered even if his eyes don’t flare like freaking christmas tree lights. “I’m just saying you should fucking tell me what they are, given it’s my ass that’s about to get chewed on!”

“We need to be somewhere defensible,” Derek mutters, grabbing Stiles’ upper arm in a tight, painful grip and yanking him sideways, further into the heart of the forest. 

Stiles really doesn’t like the sound of that. Defensible means boundaries, closed in, which implies trapped. Derek doesn’t do hiding, he does offense. They’re running now, sure, but it’s strategic, not cowardly, and more than likely occurring because it’s Stiles who Derek was unlucky enough to have been with at the time. For all his faults, Derek won’t let Stiles die.

That holds true even now, as Derek pulls at Stiles’ t-shirt. He’s going almost too fast for Stiles to keep up as he takes them over increasingly rocky terrain and the water pounds down harder. But Derek really won’t let Stiles die. And so Stiles follows him, jumping over fallen logs and through muddy puddles. His ankle twists on a particularly bad placement and Stiles cries out before he can think better of it. Derek still doesn’t stop, just keeps on running at an increasingly wolfish lope. The trees are growing closer together, hitting at Stiles as he struggles to keep up, scratching across his face and ripping at his clothes.

Thunder rumbles again, loud and deep and Derek slips on wet rocks, stumbling backwards into Stiles behind him. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles gasps as he struggles with Derek’s staggering weight, trying desperately to keep them both upright. 

“Sorry,” Derek growls, shaking his head like a dog with an ear infection. “I can’t...” He breaks off with a growl and launches himself back into a run.

Yup. That is definitely panic that Stiles can feel, a queasy roiling feeling in his stomach and adrenaline washing down him like a cold bath of water from head to toe. Because something is wrong with Derek.

And they continue to run.

In the rain, with terror in the back of his throat and water in his eyes, Stiles doesn’t recognise where they are in the preserve or where they’re going. It’s answered for him a few minutes later as they start upwards in elevation, thighs burning as they climb. There isn’t a lot of ‘up’ in Beacon Hills and Stiles realises they’re heading towards the hut.

Sure enough, they come through a dense stand of trees and there it is. The abandoned wooden structure is still standing — although barely — tucked in among overgrown grass and fallen tree branches.

Stiles found the place marked as a ‘walker’s hut’ on ordinance maps his dad brought home one summer. He and Scott spent a memorable couple of weeks there pretending they owned the place and Stiles’ mom hadn’t just died and Scott’s dad hadn’t just left. If it weren’t for the fact it was fucking miles away, and pretty hard to get to, he has no doubt they would have kept going back, but as it was, they couldn’t be bothered by the time the next summer had rolled around.

Over the years the wood has grayed even further, a light silver that shines in the dark of the storm. The window is a black maw and the door stands open on broken hinges. Derek all but dives inside like the devil is at his heels and Stiles follows, grateful for the shelter even as a green tinge of claustrophobia tells him that it’s a bad idea.

Inside, the hut is dark. There’s one window not much more than an open hole in the side facing down the hill. It smells musty and like dirt. The floor is littered with shell casings where hunters have used it as a blind, a can of gun oil lies on its side in the corner and abandoned cigarette butts are turning to ash in the corners like moth’s wings kept too long under glass. Amazingly, it’s relatively dry, the only wet spot a misshapen rectangular patch where the rain has come directly through the window. 

Derek is pacing angrily across the small floorspace and Stiles takes the moment to kick at the sods of grass and earth that have wedged the door open. With them forced out of the way he yanks at the wood and with a creaking groan it pulls shut, plunging the room into near pitch blackness.

The exertion of the last few hours catches up to Stiles and he barely makes it in a controlled slump to the ground, palms flat on the dirty floor as his chest heaves to bring in oxygen. His ankle is beginning to throb where he twisted it and the clothes on his back are heavy with water. 

All in all, he’s had better days.

“Are you alright?” Derek asks from the other side of the room, voice gruff and deep.

Stiles raises his gaze to Derek, finds him almost backed into a corner, posture defensive and eyes red. The knowledge that something is wrong with Derek works strangely in Stiles, allowing his panic to recede so he can focus on the present. His ‘Sheriff's son’ training on how to deal with ‘a situation’ kicks in and takes priority over his own fear.

Stiles spits on the floor, trying to rid his mouth of the bitter adrenaline aftertaste. “I think so. Are _you_?”

Derek glowers at him, which is not an answer.

“Is it coming after us?” Stiles asks, meeting silence with more words.

“I don’t know.” 

“Can’t you hear it with your superwolfy hearing or something?” Stiles asks, nervous at the lack of surety in Derek’s tone.

He swears he can actually see Derek’s facial hair growing.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Stiles asks. He can feel his own panic rising inside him again. If Derek isn’t giving him anything his mind will go to the worst case scenario. 

“I’m not keeping anything from -” Derek begins but midway through the sentence lightning splits open the sky, white hot light filling the cabin like the flashes of a million paparazzi cameras going off at once. 

The effect it has on Derek is instantaneous. He drops before the after image of the electricity has even faded from the sky, his forearm coming up to shield his eyes and his whole body turning rigidly into the corner. 

Stiles is on his feet and a step toward Derek before he even notices the claws.

“Fuck! What?” Stiles asks, imagining the worst. Did he misscount, is it a full moon after all? Has Derek lost control? Did the creature’s blood bring on some kind of illness? All he gets in response to his plea is a low growl. “Derek?” 

Derek is still for a long moment and then finally he turns, blinking up at Stiles. He hasn’t wolfed out, Stiles notes with relief. In fact his claws are gone and so is the red of his eyes. Instead they’re their usual green-gray, but his irises are tiny pinpricks of blackness as small as Stiles has ever seen them.

“It’s the storm,” Derek snaps.

Stiles can’t help the ragged laugh that tears out of his throat in a mixture of fear and relief. “You’re afraid of the storm?”

Derek glares but Stiles can’t seem to get his mouth under control. 

“No really, you’re afraid of thunder and lightning... like a, like a _dog_?” he asks incredulously.

“I am not a dog,” Derek growls and launches himself from his corner, intimidating Stiles into stepping backwards into the wall with a thud. Derek pushes up into his space, but Stiles knows it’s all bark and no bite. At least, for the moment.

“And yet you’re afraid of a storm,” Stiles notes, goading. If he were still going to a therapist, he’s pretty sure he’d be being called on _transference_ right now, because he’s clearly only being suicidal in order to take his mind off the imminent possibility of murder. That’s a level of irony he’s really not willing to examine anytime soon. “We had a dog once, called Sprocket. He wet himself every time it thundered after we locked him up in the laundry during a storm.”

He’s pretty sure Derek is gearing up to literally rip his face off with his teeth, the fangs are definitely getting longer, white glints in the almost-dark of the shelter.

“You think it’s funny -” Derek begins but once again his sentence is cut off as a clap of thunder vibrates around them and, instead of finishing berating (or eating) Stiles, he claps his hands around his ears instead, staggering backwards until he hits the opposite wall.

“Oh,” Stiles says as he realises this is a physical issue, not a mental one. Because yeah, that could be a problem. A really terrifying one considering...

Derek slides down the wall landing in a heap in the corner and Stiles is sliding to his knees at his side a second later.

“It’s the volume, isn’t it, or the resonance or something?” Stiles asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. 

Derek’s pupils are wide again, black and angry with the fear of having his sense of hearing fucked up. After a long minute he removes his hands from his ears but he stays in the corner. “There’s a reason animals hate storms, Stiles.”

Stiles nods, not even wanting to point out that Derek is now actually comparing werewolves to dogs. It’s suddenly not so funny.

“Can’t you like, turn your super hearing off? Scott does it all the time.” Sometimes, too often.

Derek rolls his eyes. “And how exactly am I meant to hear if we’re being followed?” 

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” Derek agrees. 

“Well but, you’re not gonna be able to hear if you blow your eardrums out either,” Stiles says, unable to process the fact that he’s arguing for them being _more_ vulnerable. 

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re being eaten,” Derek comments dryly and Stiles can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. Derek making jokes is a beautiful thing and no one is ever going to tell him it isn’t.

Lightning spiders across the sky outside and Derek swears, pushing Stiles’ heart into his throat yet again. Derek’s pressing his palms into his eye sockets hard enough that Stiles knows it must hurt.

“Derek, shit, stop!” He leans forward, pulling ineffectually at Derek’s wrists. Derek’s hands come away with little resistance but Stiles is hit by the sudden realisation, as he observes the tiny pupils and blank stare, that _Derek can’t see him_. “Oh my god, are you blind, please don’t say you’re blind,” Stiles begs, waving his fingers in Derek’s face.

“I’m not blind,” Derek growls, swiping Stiles’ hand out of his face. “It’s temporary. Just give me a second.”

But it’s more than a second, going on a minute or even two as Stiles crouches next to the werewolf, watching his pupils re-dilate. 

Derek grumbles as he blinks, his eyes watering slightly. “Night vision and lightning don’t mix.”

“But there was lightning before,” Stiles says, because there had been, hadn’t there? And Derek certainly hadn’t gone _blind_ before. He’s pretty sure he would have noticed.

“My retinas are being damaged,” Derek shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “It’s darker now, my eyes are compensating to let in more light.”

“So it’s going to get worse?” Stiles asks, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Derek shrugs, which means yes. 

It makes sense, Stiles reasons. He’s seen the way both Scott and Derek react to Chris Argent’s exploding phosphorus arrowheads. It also explains the eye flare whenever Scott is caught on camera or the way Sprocket had looked like a demon dog in any photos they took at a weird angle. 

The tell tale rumble of a thunderclap coming sounds and Stiles doesn’t even think, simply lurches forward and clamps his hands over Derek’s ears. Derek’s hands come up over his, damp from the rain. Stiles can feel Derek flinch at the noise, tensing under him; the way Derek’s breath hitches, a pause in the warm moistness hitting Stiles’ clavicle as he leans above him.

The thunder passes and Stiles pulls back. Derek is looking at him oddly, like he can’t quite imagine what possessed Stiles to do what he just did.

“What?” Stiles asks, unable to stop the defensiveness that creeps into his tone.

Derek just stares at him, head cocked to the side like he’s trying to figure out a particularly hard chemistry equation. 

“Well did it help?” Stiles asks angrily, not liking the whole silent judgey thing Derek is currently embracing.

To his surprise, Derek answers. “Yes,” he says, though he does it in such a way as to imply that doing so is costing him a lot. Possibly his soul.

“Well then stop being a dick,” Stiles says.

Again Derek opens his mouth to say something, or snarl something, but Stiles has been counting, methodically, in his head. His mom always told him that the closer the thunder got to the lightning the closer it was to you. And it’s been getting closer. 

So instead of waiting for Derek to regale him with some witty repartee Stiles darts forward again, gently slapping his palms over Derek’s eyes. His fingertips slot in against the bridge of Derek’s nose, his palms tickled by the unexpectedly soft hair at Derek’s temples.

“Stiles, what the fuck?” Derek predictably gripes but even as the words leave his mouth lightning sparks and shreds the sky in a cascade of light. 

Derek can clearly feel it, he jerks and slaps his own hands over the top of Stiles’ for added blackout. Stiles pulls back the second the lightning fades, dislodging Derek’s hands in the process. Derek blinks up at up him with eyes that are thankfully dilated and dark. And pissed.

“Seriously?” Stiles asks incredulously. “You’re angry at me _helping_ you.”

“You’re just trying to save yourself,” Derek says, sniping childishly. 

“Oh my god. You are so...” He casts about, arms thrown up in exasperation. “You!” 

“Well aren’t you?” Derek demands.

Stiles narrowly avoids rolling his eyes. “Well of course I am. I’m trying to save both our asses. Look, if that thing comes after us, catches up without us being ready, we’re screwed. I can’t fight it without you. You can’t fight without your sight, without your hearing. So, let. me. help. you.” 

He spits the last words out in his best Shatner impression, the one he likes to use on his dad. It goes over with Derek about as well.

Derek is silent, rocking the brooding and angry look so Stiles decides to take matters into his own hands. 

“Look. You can go back to hating me after we get out of here alive, okay? But for right now, we have to help each other. Because I’m dead without you Derek. And okay, you will probably survive just fine without me, but surely it's easier if I’m your eyes when you can’t see and your ears when you can’t hear? I mean that just makes sense, man.”

Derek is continuing to stare at him, but it’s not as unnerving as the way Derek’s almost shaking, a tiny shiver of vibration that Stiles can actually see. He knows what it feels like. He may not be a werewolf but he’s been fighting back panic attacks for a long time now. Long enough that he’s intimately familiar with the adrenaline rush that turns his limbs to jelly, the shaking hands, the dread. The need to run or lash out, fight or flee. Feeling trapped.

Ordinarily, running would probably be the best option, for a wolf anyway, Stiles thinks. But if Derek runs now Stiles will be alone. That isn’t likely to happen, even if Stiles gives Derek permission.

“Shit,” Stiles hisses, running his fingers through the short fuzz of his hair as an entirely new thought occurs to him. “Are you gonna turn alpha on me?”

Derek looks away.

“It’s just,” Stiles begins, thinking as he talks. “I know when I’m panicking, I can’t think of anything else. It’s all there is, just fear and then fear of more fear. I don’t know how that would affect an anchor... and that time when Scott... with Allison...”

“I don’t know,” Derek breaks in, looking out the window and not at Stiles. Which is actually a really bad thing, considering the whole light show situation.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never been in a storm before,” Stiles says before he can think it through.

Derek’s eyes are back on him, brows furrowed in angry lines. “I’ve never been in a storm where I had to stay in one spot with a potentially lethal supernatural being chasing me down and a defenseless human to protect, Stiles. So, no. Not the same.”

“Okay,” Stiles nods, because it’s a fair point. Derek can’t run because of Stiles, but without speed to protect him he needs hearing, and sight. He nods again, this time to himself. “Okay, so we’ll just have to deal.”

He glances around the meagre shelter they’ve found themselves in, but there’s just nothing to defend themselves with. Nothing to push up against the gaping hole of the window, to block out the light and the sound. All they have is _them_.

There’s a fair chance that Derek will eat him, with what he’s about to attempt, but honestly, if his options are being eaten by Derek or being eaten by a dead-ant creature, he’ll go for Derek. So he shuffles forward, life probably, definitely, in his hands, and nudges at Derek’s shoulder. “Move forward.”

“Why?” Derek asks.

“Jesus, please, just do what I ask, for once?” Stiles says, frustration pulling his voice up.

“Fine,” Derek says between gritted teeth and, miraculously, he does, scooting forward on the floor, away from the corner.

“Also, don’t kill me,” Stiles whispers to the roof as he moves in behind Derek, uses the corner of the room to brace himself as he slides down, legs splaying to either side of Derek’s torso.

Derek goes rigid, a tight uncomfortable lock of muscles and barely concealed anger. Stiles steadfastly ignores the part of his brain that is helpfully reminding him predators probably don’t like having other animals behind them where they can’t see them. Where they’re vulnerable.

He tries to soothe Derek before he can pull away and, you know, kill him. “Just wait,” he says softly, near Derek’s ear. “It’s okay, I promise. Scott used to do this to me... after my mom, you know.”

Derek’s no less tense, even after full seconds of awkward silence. Stiles’ knees bracket Derek’s hips and Derek is cold between them with the wet of both their jeans, even colder against his front where Derek’s sodden jacket touches Stiles even as Derek keeps his distance.

It’s almost a mercy when the echoing thunder clatters like a shotgun. In this position it’s easier, so much easier, and Stiles’s palms are against the ridges of Derek’s ears a split second later.

Derek pushes backwards, away from the open space and noise and firmly into Stiles’ chest. Stiles lets him, figured he probably would if his own behaviour with Scott was any indication. Stiles himself had been afraid of storms after they buried his mom. For at least two years after the funeral, when thunder began to rumble, Scott would turn up at the door, wet as a drowned rat and grinning like it would all be okay because of his sheer force of will. Usually he was right.

They don’t talk about it, didn’t talk about it even then, because guys just _don’t_ , but sometimes Scott was the only thing keeping Stiles from flying apart at the seams those nights. Scott’s arms around him as tight as any friend could get them, letting Stiles push in close when the storm growled too loudly.

Stiles lets his hands drop from Derek’s ears the second the thunder ceases, but he stays close. He doesn’t quite know where to put his hands and eventually lets them rest on Derek’s hips, lightly, so as not to spook him into feeling trapped. 

Derek is still ramrod tense, but he doesn’t pull away. Stiles is counting it as tacit permission.

“So,” Stiles starts, because they have long seconds to fill before the lightning strikes again and he has a werewolf between his legs. “What do you think that thing was back there?”

Derek shifts minutely in the dark, a soft shudder that Stiles will not acknowledge on pain of death. “I have no idea,” Derek grumbles.

“Really? None?” Stiles asks with disbelief. “Can’t even hazard a guess? Mothman, Chupacabra, Abominable Snowman, Jabberwocky?”

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Derek snaps. 

“Isn’t there like, werewolf lore that is passed down from generation to generation?” Stiles fidgets, suppressing a shiver as Derek’s wet jacket soaks through his own. 

“Of course there is,” Derek says, muscles cording and tightening beneath Stiles fingers, against his thighs. “But what sixteen-year-old kid would want to pay attention to it?”

Stiles is going to argue that _he_ would want to, and so it takes him a fairly embarrassing amount of time to realise the implication of what Derek said. Because of course Derek doesn’t know that shit, the generation to pass it down to him, well, _isn’t_. And when it was, he wasn’t interested.

Stiles doesn’t know if he should apologise or pretend he hasn’t just been incredibly insulting to his... whatever Derek is to him. Leader, strategic ally, frenemy ...friend? He’s saved having to do either as Derek appears to _prickle_ in front of him. 

At first he thinks it’s because Derek is going to wolf out on him for being such an inconsiderate asshole, but then he hears the incongruous whine in the back of Derek’s throat and he remembers why they’re like this in the first place and almost as one they slap their hands to Derek’s eyes as lightning flickers and splits across the sky outside in a silent show of tremendous power.

When it’s gone, Stiles rests his palms on Derek’s shoulders, ready for the thunder which should follow. He tries to ignore the fact that he’s inches from feeling Derek’s stubble against his fingertips, that he can feel the warmth from Derek’s skin bleeding into his hands.

“Bet you didn’t think you’d be spooned by the annoying friend of your reluctant pack when you got up today,” Stiles jokes. 

“It’s fine,” Derek says, not denying that Stiles is annoying but not sounding angry, all the same. 

Stiles wouldn’t go so far as saying that Derek sounded grateful, but then, Derek never would. 

The count in Stiles’ head runs out and he brings his hands to Derek’s ears, this time hyper aware of how Derek’s damp hair brushes against his fingertips. It’s soft, and for some reason that surprises Stiles. Not that he thinks Derek goes out and washes his hair in muddy creeks and grooms it with sticks or anything, but he can’t see Derek at the supermarket buying leave-in conditioner either. Rough-as-guts hand soap, maybe.

He shakes his head and focuses on the thunder clap that growls through the air. Now is so not the time to be thinking of Derek’s hair. Or Derek’s anything. Talk about bad timing. 

As the thunder passes Stiles can’t help the nervous laughter that escapes him. “No, really, we’re like best friends now or something, right? Bound in adversity? Brothers in arms? Saving each other in our time of need,” he rambles.

Derek rolls his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension. Stiles suspects he’s rolling his eyes at the same time.

“If I had a kite and a piece of string I’d send you out there right now,” Derek deadpans.

“First off, you’d need a key too, asshole. Did you even _go_ to school?” Stiles rallies back. “And second, I’m taking the fact that you’re cracking jokes to be a positive development.”

“Who’s joking,” Derek mutters.

“You are such an ass-” Stiles begins, even as he brings his hands up to cover Derek’s eyes from the lightning that must be seconds away.

On cue the sky breaks out into pyrotechnics and Stiles hums his superiority as he feels Derek push back into him. Seconds later, the world is plunged dark again.

“I’m just saying,” Stiles continues, as if the interlude never happened. “You can’t deny we end up saving each other’s asses on a semi-regular basis these days. It wouldn’t kill you to acknowledge that we’re maybe at least friends.” 

He isn’t really listening to what he’s saying, just letting his mouth run away with itself to lighten the tension of the situation, to maybe calm Derek in the same way Scott used to babble nonsense to him. 

Derek doesn’t respond, but again, that could be ‘I’m going to kill you,’ or ‘Keep going, you’re helping’, so Stiles picks the lesser of two evils and keeps on, right up until the thunder cuts his monologue off and stoppers his throat with a flicker of his own anxiety.

The thunder passes and Stiles removes his hands as soon as Derek pulls his own away. He shifts slightly; his ass is going numb against the hard floor. Derek is silent.

Stiles opens his mouth to fill the silence but before he even gets a vowel sound out Derek is tensing and gasping out a snapped, _“Stiles”_.

Derek’s hands make it to his eyes before Stiles’ do, and Stiles swears as the lightning hits again, slapping his hands hard over Derek’s fingers.

The thunder is instantaneous, coming right on the heels of the lighting and Stiles curses again, slides his hands back to Derek’s ears. He leans forward for better purchase, chest pressing against the leather of Derek’s jacket. 

The storm is directly above them, lightning following thunder following lighting and Stiles concentrates on protecting Derek, on the way Derek’s shaking in his arms, a low burr of a growl signalling his discomfort and desire to flee.

Keeping Derek safe is the only thing stopping Stiles from fleeing with him.

Long minutes go by, rain lashing against the wood of the hut like swarms of nails being driven into its woody flesh. The wind howls, rushing through the small window, litter and cans picked up in its grip and smashing against the opposite wall. 

Stiles turns his face into Derek’s neck to shield himself from the worst of it, his breath moist against Derek’s skin and his hands and wrists fastened securely over Derek’s eyes and ears. It feels like it is never going to stop, sound and light banging and crashing, turning the back of Stiles’ eyelids red where he squeezes them shut. 

The storm is so close the sheer force of the thunder rocks the walls in vibration, creaking and heaving in the onslaught. The dryness of the floor gives way to damp as the rain comes through the window.

It keeps going, inching over them, distance between light and sound growing longer, the wind slowing but the rain pounding ever harder. 

Stiles doesn’t know how long they’ve been there but the cold has seeped into his bones and he’s shivering, even with Derek plastered to his front. 

He has a feeling that, in the metronomic counting of seconds between thunder and lightning, a great deal of time has passed. He knows it’s been hours. It was already dusk when he arrived at Derek’s and followed the trail of destruction to find Derek himself battling the hell beast.

Stiles doesn’t dare move, lest the storm disobey all sorts of meteorological laws and turn right back around to come back. So he sits there, frozen to the spot and practically cradling Derek in his arms as the minutes go by.

Eventually the storm quietens, heading over the hills to the east. The rain lightens, becomes a soft patter interspersed with louder drips as the forest sheds its watery coat off feathery leaves. 

Stiles finds he needs to clear his throat to speak, his voice croaky with cold and worry. “Is it... do you think it’s gone?”

Derek jerks, as if from a trance, Stiles forgotten behind him. He’s silent a moment longer, and then, “If you mean your jabberwocky, I can’t tell, there’s too much damage.”

Which doesn’t make Stiles feel better in the slightest.

“Will it heal?” he asks, tentatively. 

“Eventually.” 

“Okay.” He can’t do anything about the situation. His back is freezing, hair wet and clothes clinging tight and uncomfortable. It’s pitch black, without the lightning to fill the room and cloud cover obscuring the moon. But if Derek is injured then it isn’t safe for them to leave. End of story.

Besides, Stiles also isn’t dead. It’s not all bad.

“So um, when you say damaged, do you mean your hearing, or your sight?” Stiles asks into the darkness, not because he wants to get out of there, though of course he does, but as something, anything, to say now that all there is is the two of them in what amounts to a soggy wooden box, the rain, while steady, not loud enough to drum out the invading silence.

“Does it matter?” Derek asks, voice rough.

Stiles thinks yes, it kinda does. At least if it’s just one sensory loss then they have a fighting chance with the other. Also, Stiles can’t see in the dark and Derek, normally, can. He keeps it to himself, though. 

Unbidden, Stiles is wracked with a shudder that winds its way from his scalp down to his toes. Even with the shelter of the wall behind him and Derek in front, there’s no escaping the fact that he’s been sitting outside in wet clothes for the better part of the night.

“You’re cold,” Derek says. He sounds somewhat surprised.

“Human,” Stiles says through his teeth as he tries to stop them chattering. The adrenaline stopped him from feeling it before, but now that it’s worn off he has to admit he’s pretty cold. In fact, he’s freezing.

Derek pulls out of Stiles’ personal space a few inches and Stiles opens his mouth to complain that them separating is not going to help the situation when Derek starts stripping off his clothes. Well, Stiles _thinks_ that’s what’s happening, judging by the sound of material rustling and the smack of what is clearly Derek’s jacket hitting the floorboards.

“Um, what?” Stiles manages eloquently.

“My jacket is wet,” Derek says, as if remarking upon the sky being up and the sun warm.

“So?” Stiles asks, already starting to shiver and bringing his arms up to cross over his chest.

“So, it won’t be helping,” Derek replies moodily. Stiles senses him coming closer until he’s _back_ between Stiles’ legs. This time when he leans back into Stiles’ space, Derek’s back is dry and warm.

“Oh my god,” Stiles exclaims as he leans in and wraps his arms around Derek’s waist.

He ignores the low growl that emanates from Derek and clings tighter. “Don’t act like you didn’t know I’d be all over you once you started taking it off,” he says, inching his hips closer to maximise the amount of Derek’s body touching his own.

“This is just for survival,” Derek mutters and Stiles leans forward to plant a wet kiss against the back of Derek’s neck in retaliation. Derek’s skin is searing against Stiles’ cold lips.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, baby.” Stiles grins into the darkness.

He can’t see it from this angle, or, for that matter, in the dark, but he wishes he could see the look on Derek’s face right now.

“Stop that,” Derek grumps. Predictably.

Stiles sighs with as much melodrama as he can inflect. “Why you gotta be such a-”

“If you say ‘sour wolf’ I will eviscerate you,” Derek interrupts calmly.

“Douchebag,” Stiles finishes.

“I’m preventing you from getting hypothermia, not letting you live out your adolescent fantasies.”

“My fantasies don’t start off like this,” Stiles mutters. He feels his own breath echo back to him off Derek’s shoulder. 

“No?” Derek asks, and Stiles could swear the man sounds smug. Annoyed still, but smugly annoyed.

“Stop smelling me,” Stiles yelps, but the damage is done, his brain has turned that corner and his dick is totally on board with the new route, already starting to harden between his legs where it’s conveniently pressed against Derek’s lower back. “Couldn’t have damaged your sense of smell, could you.”

Derek is silent, no doubt having moved onto other matters, such as their pressing need to see and hear.

Stiles tries to think of baseball stats. The smell of Scott’s gym bag. His dad. Anything to distract him from the way he wants to press himself forward and rub himself out on Derek’s spine. He fidgets, trying to get space between his sensitive cock and Derek. Because this is his life.

“That’s really annoying,” Derek snaps after Stiles fidgets some more.

“Well it’s not like you’re helping any,” Stiles says defensively. 

“I’m trying,” Derek growls.

“Oh? You need concentration to what? Will yourself better?” Stiles mocks. He doesn’t care. He may have been saving Derek’s life minutes earlier but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to throttle him at the same time.

“If you hadn’t turned up at the house this wouldn’t even be an issue,” Derek says. “So perhaps a little gratitude that I didn’t leave you there is in order?”

Stiles splutters. “Are you fucking serious? I’ve been cuddling your grumpy ass for the last however many hours. If anyone should be grateful...”

“You weren’t saving my life, you were stopping me from losing my ability to protect _yours_ , and you couldn’t even do that,” Derek bites out. 

Stung, Stiles falls silent. He knows it’s just Derek being, well, _Derek_ , but it still smarts. 

Awkward minutes pass with just the sound of the rain for company. Eventually Derek blows out an annoyed breath. “I’m... I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles allows.

“No,” Derek sighs. “It isn’t. I need to be able to... what am I if I can’t even protect my pack?”

“I’m your pack?” Stiles asks, curious and more than a little humbled.

“When it counts.” Derek falls silent again.

And Stiles gets it. Derek is being douchier than normal because he has to be. He has nothing else left. Without the ability to fight, Derek feels like he’s nothing. Impotent. Which is ironic, given that he has Stiles’ half-mast erection making his acquaintance. Or maybe that isn’t irony, Stiles can never remember the difference. Anyway. It’s something.

“You know,” Stiles breathes into the darkness, aware he wouldn’t have the balls if he could see. “We don’t hang around you _just_ for protection.”

Derek just ‘hmmphs’.

“I know you don’t believe it, but you do actually have qualities other than strength and speed that aren’t all bad to be around. You must feel the same, otherwise why would you bother putting up with us?”

“You’re pack,” Derek says. It’s begrudging.

“I don’t think that’s all it is,” Stiles says. He shifts a little, trying to get comfortable. It has the unfortunate (fortunate) side effect of bringing the erection he’d nearly distracted away back into contact with Derek. He hopes Derek’s hearing is bad enough not to hear the sharp intake of breath Stiles swallows. He’s pretty sure it isn’t, judging by the moment of rigidity in Derek’s back.

“You could have had anyone in your pack, but you chose the island of misfit toys. That means something.”

“That I’m not enough to deserve anything else,” Derek says with sarcasm, but Stiles knows the idiot believes it.

“Stop that,” Stiles snaps. “Jeez. I thought I was full of self-pity, the lone virgin human in a hyper-sexual wolf-pack, but you take the cake, man.”

“It isn’t pity, it’s just fact,” Derek says. Pityingly.

“Oh my god,” Stiles groans. “You don’t think you deserve anything, do you?”

“I don’t,” Derek counters immediately.

Stiles smacks Derek’s stomach with his palm and Derek immediately growls, low and intense and it vibrates through him, straight into Stiles’ skin. The half erection immediately tries for full again. 

Derek’s hand comes up to grip at Stiles’, in case he hits him again, Stiles supposes. But he wasn’t planning on it. Another idea has come to mind.

“You do deserve things,” Stiles says, voice low. He starts to push his hand down Derek’s abs.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you you’re more than good hearing and 20/20 vision,” Stiles says. He tries for matter-of-fact, but Derek must be able to detect the slight tremor in his voice. He pushes on — their hands down — regardless.

“Stop,” Derek says, a bundle of tense muscle against Stiles’ front.

“No,” Stiles answers and pushes against the sudden resistance of Derek’s hand. “For fuck’s sake, Derek, sometimes you just have to let people in.”

“I really don’t, Stiles.”

“Do you really hate people that much? Hate me?” Stiles asks, surprised by the way his throat tightens.

“I don’t hate you.”

“But you don’t _like_ me,” Stiles says, reading between the lines. Unexpectedly, his heart feels like it plummets and he goes to pull back, to take his hand, and his clearly unwanted advances, away.

To his surprise, Derek stops him, grabbing at his hand and keeping it where it is, pressed low on his stomach. “I like you fine,” Derek says between gritted teeth.

Stiles isn’t a hundred percent sure, because it’s Derek, but he thinks maybe the unhappy declaration means more than the words suggest. Still, he can’t just feel Derek up if Derek really doesn’t want him to. Quite apart from the fact that he’d most likely end up slashed and gutted if he tried, he also doesn’t want to have to wash the sex-offender feel off his skin afterwards.

“Do you want...” Stiles asks, unable to finish the sentence even though the seriousness of the situation demands it.

Derek says nothing, but the grip holding Stiles’ hand tightens gently. Knowing he isn’t going to get an engraved invitation, or even an adult fucking conversation, Stiles takes a leap of faith and noses into Derek’s neck, finds his earlobe and sucks on it.

Two things happen in quick succession: one, Derek moans, and two, he lets go of his hold on Stiles’ hand, causing it to drop. Into his lap. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles says in wonder. “You’re _hard_.”

He can feel the way Derek’s muscles bunch, as if he’s about to bound up from the floor and Stile just can’t, _won’t_ , have that happen. He splays his fingers over the bulge in Derek’s jeans and presses down, causing Derek’s breath to hitch and Derek himself to settle back into Stiles’ arms.

“I said I liked you,” Derek says, managing, hilariously, to sound offended. “What did you expect? You’ve been rubbing your cock into my back for half an hour now, Stiles. Fuck.”

This time Stiles does press forward, pushing said appendage into the small of Derek’s back and shivering at the delicious tension it sparks in him. “I thought you’d just... ignore it.”

“It, like you, is not so easy to ignore,” Derek grumbles.

“Just so you know, you sound like James Earl Jones when you talk like that.”

“Open my pants, Stiles,” Derek says.

“Yeah okay, not so much like James Earl Jones anymore...” Stiles mutters and finds the zip of Derek’s jeans by touch. “Are you sure?”

“Are you kidding me?” Derek says, clearly annoyed. “This was your dumbass idea.”

Stiles sighs with exasperation. “Well I was teaching you a lesson! It wasn’t supposed to be fun — this is a whole other thing now.”

Derek is quiet. And then, “You wanted to get off and have it _not_ be fun?”

“Shut up. It makes total sense”

“Actually, it probably doesn’t,” Derek says. “We really don’t know where our little friend is. I can’t keep you safe.”

“Oh hell no,” Stiles says. “If he were going to eat us, he would have done it by now. I’m not re-enforcing your stupid martyr complex.”

“So you’re still teaching me a lesson?” Derek enquires with a soft sound that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. His hands come to rest on Stiles’ thighs, just above his knees.

“Yes,” Stiles decides firmly. Much more firmly than he feels, which is shaky and a little bit scared and also, a lot turned on. His dick is aching in his pants and he has to do something about that, uses his free hand to reach between their bodies and unzip. He groans as it frees and slides up, catching on the edge of Derek’s t-shirt and then sliding up under, against skin.

Derek’s fingernails curl into Stiles’ thighs. _“Jesus, Stiles”_

Despite the dark, Stiles has screwed his eyes tight at the sensation, unable to keep from hitching his hips up to slide his cock against Derek’s skin. “Yeah,” he breathes out, stunned.

Derek’s right hand lifts, and then Stiles feels it on his own where he’s stalled at freeing Derek’s own erection. Together they pull open the zip, the hot line of Derek’s cock pressing against Stiles’ fingers through a thin layer of cotton.

Stiles is suddenly grateful that he can’t see more than looming black shapes in a sea of more black, because he’s unsure he could do this if the lights were on. If he could see what Derek’s cock looked like with his fingers wrapped around it. 

As it is, it’s overwhelming; Derek is hot against his palm, and Stiles quickly slips the length of him out from the confines of his briefs. Stiles is intimately aware of how his own dick feels in his hand, and until this moment, he wasn’t sure someone else’s would feel any different — but it does. 

Derek is unnaturally hot, silk-soft over rigid hardness. The width is different than his own and the length curves slightly. By the feel of him, Derek is uncut and Stiles takes a moment just to feel the way the skin moves under his palm as he gives a slow pull. Derek groans and Stiles can feel his own cock jerk and pre-come bead. The harsh cadence of their breathing joins the noise of the rain as Stiles begins to stroke.

He pushes forward, trying to get a better angle, plastering himself to Derek’s back and laying his head on Derek’s shoulder. It’s intimate, perhaps too intimate, breathing into the crook of Derek’s neck, so close he could taste Derek’s skin. Derek responds with a low moan, his cock twitching against Stiles’ fingers.

“You do deserve this,” Stiles says, awkwardly trying to create friction on his own cock with abortive thrusts into Derek’s back. It feels amazing, and he groans as the tip of his cock catches against the bumps of Derek’s spine. He isn’t going to last long, the tension is ratcheting up quickly, but he has to get Derek off first. His legs tighten instinctually around Derek’s hips and Derek’s grip tightens in the fabric of Stiles’ jeans.

“Matter of... _fuck_... perspective.” 

“I don’t think even you would argue you have the best perspective on life.” 

Derek laughs, halting and low. “Maybe not.”

Stiles tries desperately to increase the pace of his hand on Derek but the angle is hard, his arm hooked under Derek’s the way it is. All he can manage is a slight twist of his fingers around the head but apparently it’s enough and Derek’s breath hitches on an inhale.

“I don’t understand why you feel you need to do this,” Derek says sounding breathless. His hips are lifting, trying to buck up into Stiles’ hands in a way the position doesn’t really allow for. His legs splay, pushing Stiles' out with them and bringing Stiles' body closer, the pressure firmer.

“Can’t I just want to?” Stiles’ voice is tight with tension and the need for release, the need for Derek’s release. He rubs at the vein underneath Derek’s cock with the side of his index finger. 

“Do you? With me?” Derek gasps out.

“Have you ever known me to do something I don’t want to do?” Stiles asks honestly, feeling himself arching towards the tipping point, his dick throbbing and his balls tightening where they’re still trapped in his pants. 

“ _Fuck,_ Stiles, I...” Derek breaks off and noise he makes next is low and keening and Stiles feels it coming, the way Derek shudders and the cock in his hand goes impossibly hard. 

Wetness coats his fingers as Derek comes, his cock jerking in Stiles’ grip and just the feel of it, the knowledge that he made Derek come has Stiles crying out, shoving in hard and thrusting against Derek’s back as his own orgasm spills over.

Neither of them says anything for long minutes as their breathing softens and heartbeats slow. Stiles let’s go of Derek’s softening cock, worried it will stick to his hand. He wipes his hand on his own jeans.

“Um, I need to...” Stiles starts, grimacing as he feels the pull of sticky come between them. 

“Yeah,” Derek says and then the constant heat in front of Stiles is gone, Derek moving away.

“Sorry about your shirt,” Stiles mutters, suddenly embarrassed about what seemed so natural and right mere minutes ago. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek’s voice comes from somewhere to his right. The sound of a zip being drawn up. 

Stiles tucks himself back in and does up his own pants, head reeling. He just gave someone a hand job. Does that make him de-virginised? He thinks, maybe, yes. Either way, he just came all over someone’s back, and that’s a hell of a long way from the previous experiences of his own hand. 

The fact that it was Derek... he doesn’t even know how to process. It’s not like he even knows what Derek is to him. What he is to Derek. Their almost utterances in the midst of the act unreliable. The catch in Stiles’ throat, the way it’s difficult to breathe makes him think maybe Derek, the idea of Derek, is more to him than he'd let himself think. 

Derek sits back down again, but this time it’s next to Stiles, not between his legs. Silence descends, and while it isn’t awkward, it isn’t entirely easy either. Stiles wants to be alone, to think about what just happened, what it means, but at the same time he doesn’t want to leave Derek’s side, the small patch of safety they’ve created between them. Not that he’s going anywhere right now, anyway. Not with a potential carnivore on the loose and a torrential downpour of rain to deal with.

Stiles thinks he must doze, or maybe it’s just later than he thought, but it seems as if things start manifesting out of the dark. Sure enough, minutes later Stiles can make out walls, the dark shape of Derek next to him. The window becomes a pale square, lighter than the blackness around it.

Dawn.

“We’re alive,” he breathes out quietly and is surprised by the soft chuckle that comes from Derek.

Chancing a look, Stiles half expects to see embarrassment or shame, deep regret at what Derek had just let himself do with Stiles, but Derek looks the same as always. Not even debauched. Stiles realises with a pang that it’s like nothing even happened. He wants to say something, to acknowledge what they did, what they had, but he has no knowledge of the situation, no clue what would make things better, or worse, so he stays silent.

Derek says nothing, staring contemplatively at nothing in particular.

When light has well and truly returned the world to day, Derek stands, cracking his neck back and forth loudly. Stiles pulls himself up, wincing at the soreness in his limbs, the ache in his back from sitting on the floor. The ankle he twisted yesterday is a dull pain when he takes a step.

“How are your eyes?” Stiles asks, shoving his hands into his pockets when he finds he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Derek glances at him, letting the irises flash red in a way that once unnerved Stiles. It stopped scaring him a long time ago.

“Good.”

“Ears?”

Derek pauses, still, and Stiles can almost see the concentration. “It’s not out there anymore,” Derek says by way of answering.

Stiles bounces on the balls of his feet. “Cool. Did it go away you think? Or...?”

Derek bends and picks up his jacket, shrugging it on over his arms despite the fact that it must still be wet and cold. And that the back of his t-shirt is probably crusty with Stiles’ come. Stiles tries to will away the blush rising to his cheeks before Derek sees it.

Derek ignores him, shouldering open the door to the hut and stepping out into the drizzling, water-logged morning. Stiles follows, fighting down the way his stomach flips and disappointment threatens to follow the cold into his bones. 

Derek is gazing into the woods. He glances back at Stiles. “The house is that way,” he says, pointing in a direction to their left. “I’m going back to where we last saw it. See if there’s a body or a trail.”

It’s a dismissal if ever he heard one and Stiles just nods, not trusting himself to speak. He really should have known this was coming. It was just sex. Nothing else, he doesn’t have to go and get all emotional about it. He wanted it, Derek wanted it, it was had and that’s that. It was just the emotion of the moment, the need for warmth, the high of adrenaline. Whatever.

“Well, thanks I guess?” he says with a shrug, feels so awkward he wants to toe at the ground with his sneaker like a kid. He manfully restrains. 

Derek is just looking at him, silent and pensive. “Stiles.”

Stiles looks up, watches a complicated set of emotions pass over Derek’s face that he isn’t even remotely qualified to decipher. And then Derek steps forward, into his space. It’s a near thing, but Stiles doesn’t even step backwards.

“Thank you,” Derek says softly, staring directly at Stiles in a way Stiles doesn’t remember him doing before except with an accompanying glare. 

“It was nothing-” Stiles begins but trails off, because it wasn’t. 

The corner of Derek’s mouth ticks up, like he wants to smile. Instead, Derek kisses him.

For a second, Stiles is too stunned to do anything but stand there. Derek’s lips are rough and cool against, pressing gently. Stiles isn’t sure what just happened, what’s happening now, why Derek is pressing his lips against Stiles’. Then with a stutter Stiles comes back to his senses and realises he’s being kissed, his _first_ kiss, and that’s all it takes for him to surge forward, pressing his lips to Derek’s.

The kiss is short, sweet and mostly chaste until Derek tongues softly at the seem of Stiles’ lips and Stiles opens on a gasp, allowing Derek entrance. Dimly, Stiles is aware of Derek’s hand cradling his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. Then it’s nothing but the swirl of tongues and the soft pressure of wet lips.

When Derek pulls away, Stiles is short of breath. Derek’s lips are plump and red and Stiles finds it a struggle to drag his eyes from them. He does, though, to find Derek looking at him with surprise and something that looks a whole lot like fondness.

“Wow,” says Stiles, suddenly buoyed by the turn of events. “So that happened.”

Derek does smile then, small and barely there, but real. “Go home, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t help grinning; he’s not being dismissed. Derek kissed him and is attempting the lost art of smiling. That means something, Stiles knows damn well it does.

He backs up a few paces in the direction Derek pointed him in, but can’t quite bring himself to turn around. “Come by later? To research the jabberwocky?” Stiles aks, with maybe a little bit of smirk. Maybe.

Derek dips his head. A nod. “We’ll see.”

Not a ‘no’ then, Stiles notes with something that feels a little bit like hope. He has no idea what this is, what it might become. Hell, ten hours ago he wasn’t sure if Derek liked him or that they were even friends. 

If he stays any longer he knows he’ll blurt out something stupid and embarrassing, so he nods in return, finally turns and sets off in the direction of the house and his jeep. He doesn’t turn back, but he’s pretty sure Derek is watching him. Like the creeper he is. 

The rain starts again about 400 yards from the house. Stiles sighs and resigns himself to being wet and cold a little longer. 

It’s okay. He doesn’t live in a movie. In reality, the sun doesn’t break from between the clouds to shine down happiness.

But, as it turns out, storms _can_ bring more than rain.

He’ll take it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow me on tumblr as [qthelights](http://qthelights.tumblr.com/).


End file.
